


Affect

by robokittens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (more or less), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23856526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: It's a funny thing, that he should have found himself on the ice.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: All Well: The Terror April 2020 Fest





	Affect

He wonders, for just a moment, as he's about to die: would this have been easier, if he'd only kept the boy's face? His voice? Would he be drunk on a beach now, or onward? Would things have gone to plan?

The sun is bright on his face. The spirit's breath is fouler than it should be, even from this distance. He stopped feeling the cold long ago, but at the first press of the blade inside his mouth, he realizes he can still feel pain.

No matter. Not for much longer. His tongue, then — it's always served him well.

*

It's a funny thing, Loki thinks, that he should have found himself on the ice. Funnier, perhaps, that he should not die there. To have got free of it, once again: born of it, perhaps, but not bound to it. He can see it still, in the distance, the backs of his eyelids, crystallized on his skin. It does not escape him, as the rocks crunch underfoot, that he could have chosen elsewhere, that if he'd only wanted a holiday there were worlds upon worlds to which he could have traveled. Why was this the time, the place, to which he'd been drawn?

London had been nice, for a time. A donned face, a voice, that made people look once but not twice, although his smile nearly always did. He'd found trouble there, and boys and girls to bed; the food was awful, but the drink nearly made up for it. A boy with a soft face, soft curls and a softer voice, an excited lilt to it as he described the open sea, the shorelines he'd seen (not many) and the ones he dreamt of (far more). A soft stomach for Loki to press his face to; softer still when he'd slid a knife through it. The blood was beautiful against his pale skin, eyes gone wide and dark with shock. "Thank you, Cornelius," Loki had whispered, watching him sink into the canal.

He'd worn the boy's face, briefly, but he found it didn't suit him, and slipped back into his older disguise. His name, though, his papers, his future — those he kept.

*

The journey was not as promised. 

*

He knows that it is cold, but he cannot feel it. His fingers are raw where they flex around the wooden knife handle, the air sharp through his drawers. His body is more fragile than he is used to. The leather of his boots feels heavy, his steps dulled, but he is steady in the bow, though the boat shifts slightly over the uneven rocks. The men are unsteady, uneasy — they're afraid. He can smell it. It's a nice smell.

The gunpowder. The blood dashed across the rocks. Tuunbaq, drawing closer. And somehow: it doesn't seem right, that ice could have a smell, that he could smell it from this distance. But he can smell it. He can feel it in his bones. The monster crests the ridge, and the men scream. The boat shifts, shakes, the chains rattle and Loki falls; he pushes himself up again.

There's a part of him that wonders if he should feel more for them: these mortal men who risked so much, who die for him even now. If he should mark their deaths some way, if only in his heart. In the end, though, he cannot take his eyes off of Tuunbaq. It's been so long since he's been this close to a god.

The knife is not as sharp as it could be, and it tastes of blood and rust even before he cuts deep enough to bleed. It hurts, as nothing has hurt him in a long time. This, finally — this part is real. This part has to be real.

Tuunbaq roars. Crozier, tenacious to the last, drags himself bloody across the rocks. Loki heaves a deep, awful breath, lets the blood spill forward from his mouth. He shuts his eyes. He reaches out. He places his tongue in his double's hand.

Go, he would say to it, but he can't. He can't say anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> you know how if you joke about something for long enough it stops being a joke?


End file.
